Enough
by keleos
Summary: Where Enjolras is misunderstood, the Amis are afraid, and Eponine is grossly mistaken. ONE-SHOT. E/E.


My little return to writing with a little story written in about 3 hours. I feel a little bit rusty, so hopefully this story is good enough. Forgive the shortness - I can't commit at the moment to a longer tale, but hopefully that'll be in the works soon!

A little bit fluffy, but who doesn't like fluff? Enjolras deserves to be happy. Reviews appreciated!

* * *

><p>His blue eyes followed the silhouette through the wax paper frames put up for sale in the streets.<p>

_Does he see me? Watching him that way…_

Surely it could not be normal. Surely it could not be proper.

Surely it could not be…right.

He snapped out of his thoughts, suddenly aware that the shadow he was watching had moved on. A moment of slight panic – had he been spotted – and no, the figure was still there, slight frame half-hidden behind a pile of apples on a wagon.

And perhaps, just for a while more, unaware that he was watching.

He would have continued following, but –

"Enjolras!"

He half turned, annoyed at being interrupted. _Or ashamed at being caught in the act_, he thought to himself. Giving one last glance at the now disappearing shadow of the boy he had been watching, Enjolras gave a sigh and steeled himself to face the source of the voice. It took a fraction of a second, but he slipped back into his familiar bearing of perfect coldness, perfect marble.

Perfect fearlessness.

"What is it, Prouvaire?"

Jehan gulped. His news was important, but nobody, save the man that stood before him, called him anything but Jehan these days. It had been a difficult move from Bordeaux, and it had always been difficult to hold his own against those who were older, wiser…He tended to equate the two from a habit that sprung from a large family and a village upbringing. But the _les amis_ nevertheless made them feel welcome with their warmth and camaraderie, giving plenty of leeway to his youth, naiveté and his occasional moments of daydream, all of which would have had been roughly dismissed by the Southern French countryside practicalities at home. And each had stood by in their own way to help him deal with the loss of his mother, giving him the courage to stand up against the demands of his father to return home immediately and learn to oversee the family's lands. They had given him the courage to understand that there was indeed a life in Paris that Jehan was destined to lead, perhaps poor, perhaps, cold, perhaps hungry.

But never unhappy.

If anything, Jehan had spent two years in Paris blossoming.

But Enjolras still inspired within him something rather different. Speaking to him stoked the dying embers of the apprehension that he possessed as a boy first in the large city. But that was all why they followed him, no? He took another deep breath.

"There's been news from Nice." Jehan said slowly. "There's been unrest amongst the workers."

Enjolras' arched an eyebrow, but remained silent.

"I…We thought you might have wanted to know." Jehan started, slightly flustered at the lack of a response. "After all, it is your hometown and surely…"

He stopped, knowing that the other man had always been uncomfortable talking about his family and the lands they owned. But surely…Surely a workers' revolt would be great news to him? Be it in terms of his concern for his family or for his passion for the revolution, surely either would be sufficient to elicit a response?

Both men now stood on the street, one thoughtfully silent, the other simply waiting. It took a few awkward moments, but Jehan drew himself up to full height and turned to walk away. There was no point staying, and there was so much to do…

"Prouvaire."

Jehan paused, turning back to address Enjolras, eyeing him intently.

"Perhaps a visit would be in order. But there is much to do here; I should go alone."

There was a note of finality to his tone that made Jehan almost indignant for a second, but he back down and nodded silently.

"We'll make the arrangements for the coach and materials. Shall we say for…three weeks?"

Enjolras nodded a reply as he turned back subconsciously, checking to see if the boy had reappeared.

Nothing.

He had an inaudible sigh and clapped a hand on Jehan's shoulder, inadvertently causing the younger man to stand up a little straighter.

"We should be on our way then." He said a little wearily. "There is work to be done yet."

...

It was nearly midnight by the time Enjolras made his way home from the Café Musain. Combeferre would often follow, given that they share their student lodgings, but tonight he was off somewhere on medical school business.

Not that he minded terribly. Combeferre was his best friend and no one knew his countenance better, but surely having your best friend follow you silently through the streets could not constitute a satisfactory alone time.

No, tonight he would genuinely be alone for a change. Accompanied by the projections that were his thoughts and imaginations. There was a time, not so very long ago, that the fearsome and fearless Enjolras lost himself in worlds of swords and fairytales, rather than the philosophy of nations.

Lately there had been more of the latter, he reflected. That must mean for something.

A crash in the alley brought him back to reality. He heard a scream, and started for the source of the scuffle, but held back as he saw a familiar figure flit out of the shadows, pursued by something considerably larger and obviously more menacing.

Him!

Whether by instinct or by the sudden surge of emotion in his chest, Enjolras abandoned his better judgment and ran towards the smaller figure and in a swift motion, pulled him into the gutter, clapping his hand over his mouth to dampen the beginnings of a yelp.

They stood in that position, muscles tensed and senses tingling –

Then as soon as it occurred, it passed.

It was a few moments before Enjolras realized the proximity of their bodies pressed against one another and the muffled mumblings of the character he now held in his arms. Hastily, he disentangled himself and stood up, feeling a flush to his cheeks as he brushed away the grime that clung to the hems of his coat.

"I beg your pardon..."

But once again, he was speaking to a ghost, and the boy had slipped away into the shadows, leaving Enjolras in the darkness, alone with his thoughts once again.

It took a moment to recollect his thoughts as he grasped the crisp October air, as if tugging at the ragged coat of the boy who had already slipped past him seconds ago. He swore under his breath, then as if coming to a sudden realization as to his situation, took a look around and climbed out of the ditch.

The guilt of the past fifteen minutes flooded into his consciousness.

Surely it could not be normal. Surely it could not be proper.

Surely it could not be…right.

He took a step back, reeling in a horror that only he knew. It had all been kept inside – the watching, the thoughts, the fantasies were never real until that moment he realized that the boy had slithered from his grip and back into the darkness that he inadvertently cursed his mistake out loud.

That one word had made it all real.

And what was that about a mistake?

Enjolras groaned, to no one in particular. This was not going well, but the train had left the station, and could not stop there.

The whole thing had been a mistake on his part. Giving in to the desire to watch had been a mistake, bringing the boy into his consciousness had been a mistake.

Hell, he thought to himself. Even the mere thought that the boy was gone because he did not hold on to him tightly enough was a damned mistake.

He had never given in to the pleasures of the flesh, no, the pleasures of the _female_ flesh. But that was because he had other concerns, more important plans that needed to be carried out and far more important entities to love and to seek pleasure from. Surely not enjoying female company did not signify that he wanted something else…something more?

So what was this devil?

Enjolras' mind reeled from the revelations, and in a moment of sudden repulsion that threatened to overwhelm, he leant forward and retched the remnants of his dinner into the ditch.

...

The nights were getting colder, and soon the small fire she could raise in a ditch would not be enough to keep herself warm.

She had done it. The chaos that had erupted earlier in the evening had been her doing, and there was something within her that had finally given her the courage to stand up and do what actually needed to be done.

So why was she still alone?

Éponine pulled her oversized coat tighter around her body and shuddered despite the warmth of the fire. She promised herself that she would not cry, would not shed a single tear, and she did not. In fact, to her surprise, the tears came less easily than she had expected. There had been that one moment of weakness as her father's hand met her face in a slap, but that was it. No more tears.

_What else could I have done?_ She found herself wondering, huddling closer to her source of light. That one scream had been enough to drive her father and that gang of his away, but it was not enough to convince M. Marius that she would do anything for him. Even give away her father, and all semblance of familial ties that she ever possessed in the world in order to protect him.

It would have been easy to feel sorry for her. No family, no friends, worse still, no M. Marius. M. Marius who was so in love with _le alouette_ that he had forgotten her existence. M. Marius who was so smitten by the girl that he only bothered to ensure Cosette was safe as she made her escape from the house. Kind, sweet, handsome M. Marius who had completely no regard for the fact that Cosette was safe behind the tall gates of the house and the reach of her attackers, while her – Éponine – was still in harm's way…

And that very same M. Marius who did not love her.

She allowed herself a little sniffle, but that was all. Éponine never lamented. She never complained about her existence, at least, not anymore. After all, wasn't she fortunate to be alive, to have a fire and light and warmth, to have a…

Saviour?

It was a strong pull that caused her to collapse silently into the ditch and allow her escape. It all went by in a flurry, but she remembered strong arms restraining her movements and an equally strong grip that silenced her yelp of surprise.

In the darkness, she could see nothing. She remembered the dampness of the rotting leaves under their feet as they crouched there, remembered the heat of their bodies pressed together and his tensed arms around her smaller frame that held it almost protectively, and remembered the smell of dried ink on his fingers as he pressed his hand against her lips. And of course, as she spun around to make her instinctive escape, she caught a glimpse of his eyes.

Those icy blue eyes that she knew she had seen somewhere before. Familiar blue eyes holding an equally familiar gaze, yet tinged with a certain foreign emotion that rendered those eyes alien to her.

Éponine cocked her head in thought. She thought she had seen those eyes somewhere before. She had heard the tone of that voice somewhere before. It was all very strange to her, but there was a certain quality to those features that made her feel unafraid – safe even.

A gust had begun to rise and the clouds had obscured the crescent moon in the sky, signifying the coming of rains. Éponine dismissed her thoughts and scrambled to a covered alleyway to find shelter from the coming storm.

Survival first. And the rest would come with the morning.

...

Enjolras stumbled through the door only to meet eyes with Combeferre. From the looks of it, he was just coming in as well, nicely avoiding the storm. There was a look on his face that spelt only concern.

"You look like hell." He started, moving forward to help Enjolras through the door. "Are you alright?"

Enjolras merely nodded queasily and motioned to a chair, which he promptly found himself sat in as his stomach settled. Combeferre moved to get him a cup of steaming tea, and for the first time in years, Enjolras was glad that the housekeeper had insisted on setting a kettle of hot water out for them before she went off for the night.

_So much for privacy_, he thought to himself, sipping the warm, amber liquid slowly.

"Are you alright?" Combeferre repeated. "I may not yet be qualified, but surely there's something I can give you to settle a bout of…whatever it is you may have."

Enjolras brushed away his friend's statement with a wave, setting the mug on the table firmly, as if that showed he was in perfect health.

"I'm – " He started, and noticing the look of scepticism painted all over her friend's face, changed tact.

"_I'll_ be fine."

Combeferre sighed, pulling together the things that he had carelessly laid on the ground in his haste to help Enjolras through the door. On another night, he would have insisted on Enjolras tell him everything, regardless of how guarded or how stubborn the man was. But tonight he had received a call from the midwife notifying him of a difficult birth that eventuated in the death of both mother and child.

Death comes easily to the abased, but it never comes easily to the one who was left behind to bear it.

Not tonight.

He bade Enjolras a curt goodnight, and exited the room, leaving the latter alone in the silence for the second time that night.

Enjolras watched as his friend left the room, partially grateful for the lack of questioning, and partly annoyed by Combeferre's lack of concern. It was so easy to forget that he was human these days, and at the rate the _amis_ were venerating him, there would come a day were he would believe himself to be the solutions to the problems plaguing the world as well.

Surely there was a thin line between wanting to lead a revolution to make a difference, and actually believing he was the revolution itself?

With his ever-increasing mood swings and the way chatter died down the moment he entered the back room at the Café Musain these days, it seemed that no one questioned him any more. No one questioned his fearlessness, and no one questioned his authority and leadership.

Enjolras leant back into the chair, picking up the mug once again. Evidently even Combeferre was beginning to think so as well, given the lack of conversation tonight. _Dear Combeferre_, he thought to himself between sips. Combeferre who had been by his side through all the crazy talk of revolutions and battles and barricades, and who had made him believe that it was all possible.

That same man who was now avoiding conversation with him as they saw their youthful dreams beginning to come to pass.

Where was Combeferre now? Enjolras took hold of his thoughts before they began to run amok once again. It was becoming a strain to keep check at thoughts like these, and he was so…selfish.

So selfish and so afraid.

He would have never admitted it openly. Or, hell, it was difficult to admit to himself that he was afraid. Perhaps it was pride, or ego, that drove him, but he increasingly saw the need to fill in the role that his friends had created for him – as leader, as authority, as Apollo. The role that needed him to be the fearless man that stood at the forefront of all of them, making plans and calculating his every move to such a precision that no one could perceive a mistake in timing. The role that made him more god than man, and therefore incapable of fault or question.

Clearly, this role he had taken up had so consumed him – he had rehearsed and played it so well – that even his oldest friend Combeferre had been fooled by the pretence.

God, was he tired.

And now, there was the separate, nagging issue of his personal…problem.

He wished he could talk to someone about it. Perhaps, some months ago he could still discreetly pull Courfeyrac aside and talk about it. He could also see the expression on the other man's face, with his lips curling upward into a cheeky grin and congratulating Enjolras' eventual sexual awakening or whatever vulgar expression Courfeyrac would use. But not anymore. Even Courfeyrac these days turned nearly rigid when he entered the room.

So what was there to do?

His thoughts wandered back to that moment when he held the boy in his arms, restraining his movement. It had been dark, but from the mere running silhouette Enjolras had known it was him. The little hop he gave every couple of running steps like a robin enjoying a puddle during the summer months. His lithe frame and almost graceful movements of his body as he ran with his oversized clothes clinging to him, flapping wildly in the wind. The cap, crammed over his head and pulled firmly over his eyes, as if to conceal a face.

And oh, dear God. That face.

It was almost just that very thing that made his heart stop in an instant the moment he had seen it in the market so many months ago. It was dirty, yes, and as with all _gamins,_ his nose ran like a tap, but there was an innate delicacy to it. Red lips and a small nose, with cheeks so pink from the cold that it nearly shone through the grime. And there were those eyes that nearly made his heart stop. And those eyes. Large hazel eyes.

There was nothing spectacular about them, save for the fact that Enjolras had seen so many of the homeless in the city huddling in street corners with similar rags and a hopeless stare in their eyes. He had met the whores who had eyes that stared straight through his soul and asked him if he wanted a night of "love-makin'" as if love still flared through their soul. He had seen workers, tired and sweaty after a day's work, heading to the shack they knew as home, with a look of resignation in they eyes.

These were the things that inspired his revolution in the first place, yet in those large hazel eyes he saw a glitter and a spark, as if to challenge the world to better his plight. And in them, he saw the fight of an individual for the things he was now fighting for a nation.

He had seen life.

Enjolras sighed, feeling for his mug of tea that had turned icy cold. It was nearly three in the morning. He rose from his seat and gathered his things, heading to the room. In two days, he would be at home with his problems in Nice. _Perhaps then,_ he thought to himself, _the problems of Paris would not be as real._

...

Combeferre rose bright and early the next morning and through his clang and clutter in the kitchen, had unintentionally woken Enjolras as well.

Enjolras crawled out from his covers and shook sleep from his eyes. Three hours was hardly enough, but it was a Saturday and he was leaving soon, so it would have to suffice for now. The time for resting would have to come at another time.

Plenty of work to be done. Plenty of work to delegate.

He dressed slowly, and hearing Combeferre enter and leave his room for a second time that morning, he exited the room, timing his exit at the exact moment as his friend was about to leave the house. Combeferre looked at him silently, and he met his friend's gaze with a nod, only to soften his expression and give in to the nostalgia of the night before.

"Let's walk together." He said, grasping Combeferre's shoulder. It had its desired effect as the latter relaxed under his grip, returning his action with a pat on the back.

Almost like old times.

They walked in comfortable silence to the Café Musain, and it seemed apt at the moment before they entered the café to speak to Combeferre about his inner turmoil. Only when he opened his mouth…

"Combeferre! Enjolras!"

He did a little cringe inside as they turned to face Joly, who was nearly running towards their favourite meeting point, then forced a taut smile.

"Glad I wasn't too late."

"Never too late." His reply was almost customary, and he saw Combeferre's jaw tighten to resume the expression that he had become used to receiving in the past few months.

"Let's go in."

The café back room was warm by comparison. They were in full attendance today, even that Bonapartist Pontmercy was here. Enjolras silently cursed. He saw today as a day for reconciliation and that additional company was not welcome. In any case today he could not run away from that mask he was wearing.

But there was more!

At the corner of his eye he spied that familiar brown cap and the oversized coat huddled by the fire, as if afraid anyone would be able to see him.

It was him!

Enjolras felt his heart lurch. What was he doing h-

"Enjolras." He turned to face Marius and gave a nod in acknowledgement. "I understand that I may have been overly animated at our previous meeting. Forgive me, I never intended to cause offence."

"I understand. A fire that burns in another house is better than cold hearths everywhere." He gave the boy a smile. This time it was genuine.

Marius returned the smile and opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by…

"M. Marius! I- I hoped to see you here today!"

Enjolras' smile froze on his face, realisation rapidly dawning about the source of the voice.

It was him.

"Ah. Éponine." Marius was speaking now. What was this? Had Marius known the boy? What was he doing here looking for Marius? Why was he even looking for Marius?

Marius turned to address him now. "This is a dear friend of mine." He said simply. "I suppose- Well, I suppose she's interested in _our_ cause."

Enjolras' mind was reeling. Marius had emphasised "our" in hope of reconciling himself with the rest of the _amis_, but all he could hear was that that boy, the very boy that had stirred forbidden emotions in his soul, that had stoked unspoken flames in his spirit that had whispered his way somehow into his heart…

He was a…

She.

Enjolras stood rooted on the spot, breath in his throat and wordless. Had it been another time and place, Enjolras would have laughed, out loud. But right now, all he could do was stare dumbly at the b-no, girl, who now shifted uncomfortably under what she must have perceived as a steely gaze.

_Oh, Enjolras_. He thought to himself, unsure how to react next. _Oh, Enjolras. You bloody fool, you_.

Marius cleared his throat, bringing the uncomfortable silence to a close and Enjolras' reverie to an end. The latter stuck his hand out.

"Pleased, Enjolras." He said simply, masking his shock in one fluid gesture. His fingers nearly tingled as she took the hand.

"Pleased." She replied.

"Éponine."

...

She sat silently at the corner of the room, waiting for the meeting to end. This talk of revolution was something she did not understand. She had just been here for Marius, but now…

_It was him_, she thought to himself, chewing her lip thoughtfully. _It was him that night_.

Éponine had noticed him the moment he entered the room, and instantly placed an identity to the blue eyes that found her at that exact second her eyes met his. She had been uncertain until she took his hand and found her fingers stained with the ink that she had caught a whiff of the night he had saved her life.

Those eyes. Those icy blue eyes that almost glowed in the dark had betrayed him entirely as he addressed those he knew as his trusted lieutenants. She now knew why they had been unfamiliar to her that fateful night. As he stood addressing them they had been steely, determined and undaunted, but that night she had seen confusion and fear in them.

Almost like those emotions tainted those eyes.

And she knew those very eyes had watched her.

"The situation in Nice is still volatile, but we shall soon see." He was saying to M. Marius, as the meeting drew to a close. She rose, to address M. Marius, but he simply nodded at her and slipped rapidly out of the door, leaving her standing face to face with icy blue eyes.

He cleared his throat, stood for an awkward second before he moved to leave, but against her better judgment, she spoke.

"I've seen you." She said. "At the market." She added as an afterthought.

He froze in his tracks, slowly turning back to face her, maintaining his silence. His silence emboldened her.

"I've seen you watching me. I've seen you following me. I recognise your face. Your…eyes."

"What would you have me do, Mam'selle?"

"I –"

It was her turn to fall silent. So there they both stood as the café began to empty, silently waiting for each to make the next move. Until, at long last, his patience ran out.

"I've seen you around at the market," he began slowly, unsure of how she would take it. His voice sounded hoarser than he intended it to. "And I've…" He faltered, suddenly feeling smaller than he was used to.

"I've noticed you." He concluded lamely.

The silence resumed. Once again, he moved to leave in embarrassment, but this time was stopped by a gentle touch on his arm.

"You saved my life." She said. "That night in the ditch."

He turned to face her again. "No thanks necessary." He found himself replying. "I simply did what I needed to–"

And there was it. Her lips meeting his in a clumsy kiss. She pulled away as quickly as it began and sat, hands folded in her lap, tugging at the hem of her threadbare coat.

Silence.

Then he stood and turned to leave, as if the kiss had never happened between them, ignoring the look of pain written on Éponine's face. It was exactly as he wanted, but there were still so many questions between them. And up till two hours ago, this girl, this Éponine who had just planted a kiss on his lips, had been only known to him as a unnamed boy.

She had come here for Marius, it was not fair to either of them if she left with him now.

So it took such a strange interaction for Enjolras to regain his composure and to recover his balance. For the first time in months, he felt at ease with himself. He felt able to breathe. Able to think. He walked to the door without a word, placed his hand on the doorknob and turned it. Then, almost as an afterthought, he spoke.

"I'll be away for work, but…" He paused to push open the door.

"I will return to the coach house in three weeks."

...

It had been a whirlwind of three weeks, and Éponine had been the last of his considerations since he arrived in Nice.

The situation was more chaotic that Jehan had painted it to be, and it took a lot for the revolutionary societies to sit down and talk with them without them taking to the streets and tearing up the stone immediately. The fire in their bellies had been encouraging, but the lack of planning would only result in unnecessary death and destruction. Still, his three weeks had been insufficient to make a change, but there was much to take back in preparation for the barricades to go up in Paris.

And then there was the issue of his family. He would not even have let any of them know that he was back in Nice if not for the illness of his grandmother. Filial duty, rather than familial love, had driven him to return to the family estate to receive the cold shoulder of his father and the endless pleadings from his mother to stop his "dangerous activities" in Paris. It was difficult enough as it was to face the letters when he was in Paris, but he felt the full brunt of his actions back in Nice, as he saw his family torn apart by the only remaining heir of the Enjolras estate.

He had been consumed by revolutionary fire, and there was nothing he intended to do about it, but it did not mean he did not care.

Still, between the Devil and the Sea…

The coach pulled to a halt, signalling that he had arrived at the Parisian coach house. He silently admonished himself for letting his thoughts run again, putting on a coat that prepared him for the cold of the night. Pulling along the case that contained his belongings, he paid the driver and exited the coach, stretching out his numbed legs.

It was cold. The chilly nights of October had given way to the freezing darkness that was November, and the three weeks of warmth in Nice had done nothing to prepare him for the cold. He pulled his coat more tightly around himself, and listened to the sound of horse shoes against the dirt as they were stabled for the night, then…

Silence.

He gave a last glance around into the darkness, then sighed, trudging along the frozen dirt in the direction of home. What had he been expecting? That she would be waiting? What in his being made him believe that she would have had such a drastic change of heart within the past three weeks when she had been all so infatuated with Pontmercy? And what made him think that she would come out in this dark and in this cold just to meet him?

"Enjolras."

He stopped, a look of disbelief passing across his features as he heard his name called by the female voice his ears craved. He spun around, almost wildly, looking for the familiar brown cap, only not to find it.

Had he been dreaming?

"Enjolras, I'm here." The voice spoke again, this time with a tinge of annoyance in it, and he turned in its direction to see a young woman.

In a dress.

His look of surprise must have displayed evidently across his face, because he could now see the grin that was slowly spreading across her face as she approached him.

"Éponine." He half-croaked.

"Why?" She teased. It seemed like her polished appearance had given way to a new found confidence.

"Did you think I would meet you here as a boy?"

He must have blushed a deep shade of red as she laughed, the spark in her eyes dancing with life. She slipped her arm into his.

"Welcome home." She smiled, tugging at him as they started walking.

He returned her smile, feeling a seed of happiness planted somewhere in the deep recesses of his soul. It was not the sweet happily-ever-afters in his childhood fairytales, or the dramatic endings of the Greek epics, but this would have to do.

He felt her warmth hold his arm more tightly now as they walked into the city centre and felt a burst of happiness within him, responding with a light caress to her hand.

This was enough.

END.


End file.
